


The Cold Net of Night

by Winterstar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the last embers of the day he waits. Looking out at the edge of the city, seeing the steel and iron maw of the world around him, he searches to find little hope. The battle raged and the combat beat them, but they won in the end. Yet, he still waits, still looks out and scans the skies for some sign of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold Net of Night

In the last embers of the day he waits. Looking out at the edge of the city, seeing the steel and iron maw of the world around him, he searches to find little hope. The battle raged and the combat beat them, but they won in the end. Yet, he still waits, still looks out and scans the skies for some sign of him.

He finds nothing and they came to him one by one to tell him to rest, to come to bed. He only shrugs them off, hoping that twilight as it turns from dusk to evening and then from evening to night will offer him some hope and some new life.

It offers him darkness within its purple veil. The cold chills him to the bone as he wanders the balcony of the penthouse, waiting, watching like a widow staring at the roiled seas of a storm. But there is no storm, just evil, lurking in men’s hearts, taking away the innocence of the world and leaving in its wake a gray ash. Ash that sticks in his throat. 

The winds around him blow and burn and he can still smell the reek of the battle, all about him. War smells like metal, and iron, and blood, and earth, and oil, and diesel. It smells like ozone and rotten flesh and putrid wounds. These things harken back to the days when he fought the Nazis and Hydra, when he threw his body and his life in front of the guns of evil to stop the masses of lunacy. It worked then, but now as the skies continue to hold their secrets he wonders if it worked today.

He shivers and tries not to recall all that he has already lost in these long days of his life. He tries not to call up the smiles of people long since gone from this Earth. Yet he remembers and it makes the emptiness inside of him all that more bitter. He needs the skies to answer him, he needs to see the speck with a flash and a spark flying toward him. But nothing calls, nothing’s there.

The night blackens and the city around him tries to chase it away with its artificial light. The lights around him glitter and shine and bleach out the beauty of the night sky. The stars are too shy to try and outshine the ego of humankind. He frowns and waits.

He should go into the apartment, clean the burns of war from his chest and side. His helmet is long gone and his uniform a wreck. But he would be dead if it hadn’t been for Tony, if he hadn’t stepped into the fray and fired. It isn’t a greeting of thanks that he wants to offer, but something far more fragile and blessed. And yet, he fears he will not be able to offer it. 

The explosion, the death count. It would include him – Iron Man. Iron Man had been in the building when everyone else had cleared out. He’d chased one of their enemy back into the building and then the fireball raced out of the building as if it was the last laugh of their enemy. They’d captured and killed Iron Man, their target all along.

He hisses and blinks his burning eyes. He ran into the flames, screamed and yelled until he was hoarse. The smoke inhalation alone should have killed him but the serum kicked in and cleared out his protesting lungs until the others, the Hulk pulled him out and Thor told him it was over. Too dangerous they’d said. Natasha offered him a mournful look and Hawkeye squeezed his shoulder. They all knew, what it had taken a building exploding into flames for Steve to figure out.

He was in love.

And he never even said it out loud. 

Never told Tony.

They finally dragged him away but, even as the chilled winter air settles around the city, he refuses to come indoors. He hasn’t changed or showered. The crust of blood on his forehead dries. He only stands, like a sentinel waiting, because he knows as if Tony is linked to him with some soul bond, or thread, or part of his being, that Tony cannot die, not now, not until he says. Tony is part of him.

He also realizes he’s being irrational. He cannot have what he wants, because Tony is dead and they’ll find his body tomorrow, crushed in his suit under the bricks and mortar of the building. Even JARVIS has been unable to connect to the suit. Tony has gone beyond where he cannot follow. Tomorrow he’ll say goodbye, but tonight he will sit vigil.

He sits on the cold concrete of the balcony and stares into the night. The stars, what few of them there are out, are now obscured by clouds. A few flakes of snow flutter down like gossamer butterflies, floating on the light winds. The snowflakes settle in his hair, on his eyelashes. He thinks it is fitting for him in some peculiar way. 

In a glimpse of clouds he sees the moon and then the bright light of it is gone and he watches as a single star glimmers in the night, bright and full of hope. He watches it. Smiles. It braves the night sky, the bright and unabashed brilliance of the city below. As he watches he realizes it is getting brighter, and closer all the more.

Jumping up he cries out, but no one hears him, it is too late and he sent them all away, wanting to sit like he was in Mass alone, by himself in some holy communion with God and the dead. There is no one to mourn, though. No one is dead as the star takes shape and then Tony touches down before him. 

His helmet’s cracked and one of the legs of the armor is torn and crushed. He limps over to Steve as the faceplate opens. He seems about to say something that’s not too wise and probably laced with sarcasm.

Steve pushes it all aside when he closes the gap between them and grabs hold of Tony’s face in his hands, cupping his jaw, and pressing lips to mouth. At first Tony doesn’t respond, his lips still and icy, but then as Steve begs entrance, Tony opens and they touch and taste and devour in the simple act of kissing. 

It isn’t night when he next comes awake, though he never slept. It isn’t cold. It is day and it is warm, and he’s found love and he’s never letting the cold net of night entangle them again.

**Author's Note:**

> Just needed a break from my other longer story. Thanks for stopping by. If you want check me out on [tumblr](http://winterstar95.tumblr.com)


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